


Hold Out Till Dawn

by Zinnith



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 5x01, Captivity, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Second Person, and cuddling is not an euphemism for sex, cuddling for warmth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine and Percival in the caves.</p><p>(Spoilers for 5x01)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Out Till Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Продержаться до рассвета](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053365) by [Wintersnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintersnow/pseuds/Wintersnow)



> Repost from [kinkme_merlin](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/33344.html?thread=34928448#t34928448).

Despite the fires, the caves are cold at night. The chill lives in the stone itself, spreads from there through bone and blood and marrow, freezes you to the core. It’s not so bad as long as you keep in motion. The hard work keeps you warm during the day, but as soon as the guards order you to put down your tools and settle in for the night, the cold is back in full force. The sweat is slow to dry on your skin and it’s hard to keep from shivering. 

You don’t know how long it’s been. Down here, the nights and days blend into each other and it’s difficult to keep track of the time. You miss the sunlight. You miss the smell of trees and the sound of birdsong. You miss the taste of air that has not been tainted by blood and smoke.

At least they feed you once a day. The soup is a sad excuse for a meal, mostly water with a few pieces of vegetables floating around in it. The bread is hard and dry and tastes like sawdust. You eat it without complaint, knowing that you need to keep your strength up.

“This is still a feast compared to last time,” Gwaine lets slip one evening when your rations are even smaller than usual. You don’t know what to answer, but the reminder that it could be a lot worse gives you a shred of hope. You’re not exactly being treated _well_ , but Morgana keeps you around for labour instead of entertainment. Killing you would deprive her of a pair of strong hands.

Gwaine mouths off to the guards of course, because he is Gwaine and that is what he does, and receives nothing but kicks and blows for his trouble. He bears the bruises with a grin, and if they pain him, he does not let it show.

You eat in silence. It’s not nearly enough to properly fill your bellies and the soup is barely lukewarm. Your bowl has a crack in it and you have to eat quickly before too much seeps out.

“Let me see your hands,” Gwaine says when you’re finished. He’s already devoured his soup. You usually try to save the bread for the morning, hide it away and hope no one will steal it during the night.

Your fingers are beginning to look like raw steak, mangled and torn from lifting heavy rocks. They don’t even have time to scab over before they’re split open again. Gwaine tears stripes from his trouser legs and dips them in water before he wraps them around your hands. “I wish we had some honey to put on that,” he mutters, frowning in concern at the red and irritated look of the scrapes and lacerations.

“If we had honey, I’d _eat_ it,” you say, flexing your hand around the makeshift bandages. Gwaine laughs in response, a shade of familiar old mirth on his face.

You are tired most of the time and exhausted the rest, but sleep is still not the reprieve it ought to be. Your mind has been full of teeth and fire of late. You dream of being chased through the woods, running for your life from some unknown assailant, and when you wake you cannot shake the feeling of being hunted.

Gwaine does not say anything, but you know that his sleep is haunted by nightmares as well. Often, you blink your eyes open in the night to the sound of anguished pleas spilling unbidden from his lips. In his sleep, Gwaine will ask for Gaius, for Elyan, he will curse Morgana, and sometimes, in the worst moments, he will beg for it all to stop. All you can do is wake him gently and offer what little comfort you have to give. You cannot forgive the sorceress and all the wrongs she has done to your friend, your _brother_. 

Gentleness is in short supply in the caves, as is warmth. You take what you can get from each other, grateful to have that much at least.

You wake up in the middle of the night, wading out of a river of blood, and it’s like some hungry fiend has followed you out of the dream for the shadows are deeper than usual. When you sit up and try to rub the nightmare from your eyes, you cannot stop looking over your shoulder, into the darkness behind you.

It’s bitterly cold. Gwaine is lying on the ground next to you with his back is turned. There’s a tremor in his shoulders and you can hear his teeth chattering.

“Are you asleep?” Even in a whisper, your voice is far too loud in the murky cave, bounces off the stone walls.

“Yes,” Gwaine lies.

“Do you mind?” you ask, lying down next to him. “It’s cold as the grave down here.”

Gwaine turns and makes space for you to slide closer and you do so, mindful of his bruised ribs. Soon, you’re pressed up against each other, skin to skin. “I won’t complain, my friend,” Gwaine rasps, trying to shift into a more comfortable position in your arms. “You’re like an oven.”

His breath is warm. You close your eyes and press your forehead against his, spread your hand over his chest to let the steady pounding of his heartbeat chase the imagined monsters from the dark corners of the cave.

This will not last forever. It _cannot_ last forever. All men who serve Camelot do so with the firm knowledge that even if the worst should happen, they will never be left behind. As long as Arthur Pendragon draws breath, there will be a way out of these caves.

“Arthur will come for us,” you tell the darkness, mostly because you need to hear it said out loud.

“‘course he will,” Gwaine mutters with tired conviction. “He’s prob’ly just got... lost on his way here or something.”

“Tomorrow, maybe.”

Gwaine nods and turns his head to press his lips to your closed eyelids. “Tomorrow.”


End file.
